A Loss, A Latecomer, and a Question
by Musicangel913
Summary: My version of the post-Reichenbach Fall events. I don't own anything - Conan Doyle, Moffat, & Gatiss (brilliant, all of them) get credit for that. Rated T for language just in case. Enjoy!
1. Gone

_"He was my best friend and I'll always believe in him."_

I stare blankly at the eleven words printed on the screen, my brain barely registering that I am their author, barely registering that the random combinations of letters swimming in my now-blurred vision are even words. Angry with myself for getting so worked up, I grab a handkerchief from my pocket and dab at my wet eyes.

Ella was wrong. Way back when, she told me keeping a blog would help. Right load of good it's done this time. I stare at the date of the fateful entry – 16th June. It's been…three months? Three years? I don't even know. Time has almost ceased to exist since then. And the rest of the entries, they just serve as painful reminders, reminders of fantastical adventures that I couldn't dare to dream up on my own and will never have the likes of again. Nevermore will I race through the streets of London on a trail invisible to Scotland Yard, or remain astonished long after a stroke of brilliance has connected the links in a convoluted chain of clues that only one man could ever hope to see. All I know now is these eleven words – a pitifully feeble epitaph for one so great, and yet, deep down in my heart of hearts, I know that I will never, _ever_ stop believing in Sherlock Holmes.


	2. Mary

_"But please, there's just one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me, don't be…dead."_

After the funeral, I removed myself from the Baker Street premises. I continued to stop in now and then to see how Mrs. Hudson was getting on – I couldn't just abandon her, after all she'd done for me – but I couldn't face the flat on a daily basis, not with all his things still there. The bullet holes in the wall, the beakers on the kitchen table, the "London A-Z" on the shelf, the skull on the mantle – all around me, countless reminders that he was gone forever.

The fierce pain that immediately followed the funeral has since subsided, replaced by a dull ache that, while not all consuming, will nonetheless probably stay with me for life – after all, the hurt of such a loss does not go away quickly. Whether I am conscious of it or not, it is there, but I've learned to resume my daily routine. I have my job at the practice, I have my afternoon walks in the park…and I have Mary.

Mary Morstan could not have come into my life at a better time. It was on one of my walks that I came to find my usual bench occupied by a woman deeply immersed in something. As I came closer, that something proved to be a sketchbook, the page open to a half-finished drawing of the surrounding landscape and the lady's hand adding careful touches with a light pencil. My shadow passing over the picture caused her to look up.

"Mind if I sit down?" I asked.

"Not at all," she replied, sliding over on the bench to make room.

"Quite a drawing you've got there," I said, almost surprised at how eager I was to make conversation. Ever since the funeral, I'd preferred to keep mostly to myself. "Fantastic, really."

"Thank you!" She seemed genuinely pleased. "Mary Morstan," she said, offering her hand. She was plainly but fashionably dressed, with an elegant blonde bob, and she had a warm smile that extended to her large, doe-like eyes.

"John Watson," I replied, shaking it. "Very pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Morstan."

"Mary, please."

"All right, Mary, then. Are you an artist then?"

"Dear me, no," she laughed, "it's merely a hobby. I've loved drawing since I was a little girl, and the weather has finally been nice enough for me to bring my book outdoors again. I'm a secretary by trade."

"A secretary? Whereabouts?" I asked, hoping I wasn't coming off as nosy. I hardly exaggerate when I say this was the longest conversation I'd had in months. Mary gave the name, and I was pleasantly surprised to hear that it was quite close to my own place of work. After a few more minutes of idle chatter, she rose to go.

"Fancy a coffee after work Monday?" I asked suddenly, feeling brave.

"I can't, my sister's in town for the evening," she said. Then, after a pause, "but I'm free Tuesday." She gave me a small smile, which I returned.

"Tuesday it is then."

* * *

The coffee date went well, and we've been together since. Mary is pretty, charming, and smart, but most importantly, she's compassionate. She, along with the rest of London, saw the headlines after Sherlock jumped, and she knows enough to understand that he was incredibly important to me. From the get-go, she's made it clear that if I ever need to talk about it, she will listen. She is my rock, and I love her more than I can say for being there for me on those awful nights when it all comes racing back and all I want to do is curl up in a ball and let the tears come. It is our anniversary soon, and I'm hoping I can come up with something special enough for her before then.

* * *

The morning is particularly fine – how could it not be? Last night, I received a breathless "yes" from those sweet lips I love so much, and now a small but beautiful ring glitters on her delicate hand. I am on my way to my weekly meeting with Ella – she insists on keeping them up, says the regular talks will do me good. She approves of Mary, and no doubt the conversation today will be a positive one. And indeed it is – "John, congratulations!" she says with a smile as I tell her the good news. "I'm so happy your life is moving forward in so many wonderful ways!" Even though this is a therapy session, I too cannot stop myself from grinning. Just the thought of that "yes" makes me positively giddy.


	3. An Unexpected Arrival

_"How would you describe me John, resourceful, dynamic, enigmatic?"..."Late?"_

The sun is out – a rare occurrence in London, that – so when the session ends I decide to forego a cab and walk home. My walk takes me by the museum, and I sit for a moment on the edge of the large fountain in the square. I stare at the building's giant façade, recalling the night when Sherlock and I failed to prevent a murder in that very place, then shake it off – today is not a day to be thinking of murders, not when the sun is shining as it is. People mill about the square, the locals distinguishable from the tourists by the latter's brightly colored maps and foreign accents, and everyone seems so happy that I can't help but smile again. London is indeed a marvelous place to be today.

I am just about to leave when something catches my eye, something that stops me dead in my tracks. Surely, I have imagined it. Surely, the person walking towards me merely bears a very keen resemblance to my former flat mate. I blink rapidly several times, then look again. The stature, the graceful loping stroll, the thick wool Belstaff coat with the collar turned up – coincidence. But…_no,_ I think. _Impossible. I saw him die!_ And yet there is no mistaking those piercing blue eyes, those finely sculpted, extraordinarily high cheekbones. Sherlock Holmes is standing in front of me.

"Sh-Sherlock?" My lips can barely form the word.

"It's good to see you, John," he says in response, and he gives me the look – the one he generally reserves for, "I know something you don't know" moments.

That does it. The smirk disappears, quickly replaced by a look of shock as my fist connects with his face.

"What the –"

"You complete ARSE!" I yell at him, causing several nearby people to drop objects and one mother to shoot me a scathing look. "What the bloody HELL is going on here?" Sherlock's nose is gently dripping blood, and I am only slightly disturbed at the idea that it might be broken. In fact, every nerve in my body screams at me to hit him again. So I do. And just once more, for good measure.

"John, there's a perfectly rational explanation –" he begins, but I cut him off.

"Rational? _Rational?_ You were _dead!_ Jesus, Sherlock, you were DEAD! How is that _rational?"_ I am beyond annoyed – I am livid.

Sherlock's second attempt to speak is interrupted by the screeching of car tires. An expensive-looking BMW grinds to a halt in front of us, and I groan as I recognize Detective Inspector Lestrade's vehicle. Of course – someone must've called the police. After all, I did just start a public brawl in the middle of London.

"John, what on earth are you doing?" Lestrade asks as he jumps from the car. "I wouldn't have pegged you for a –" he stops short as he sees Sherlock.

"What the hell…" he whispers, unable to believe his eyes.

"As you can see, Greg, a particular consulting detective who's supposed to be _dead_ decided today was the day to show everyone how he'd made bloody fools of them all!" I practically spit out the words.

"Get in the car, both of you," Lestrade says. "You've got some explaining to do."


	4. Explanations

The ride to Scotland Yard is probably the most awkward I've ever had in my life – and looking back on my uni years, that's saying something. Lestrade makes me sit up front, probably so I don't attack Sherlock again, and Sherlock, for once, says nothing. No brilliant deductions, no analysis of Lestrade's new haircut or the dirt under his nails or the half-empty coffee cup on the dashboard or anything else, which is good because if that damn _moron_ opens his mouth right now I swear I'll do worse than punch him, police or no police. We make it to Scotland Yard without incident and soon find ourselves seated in Lestrade's office. For several minutes, no one speaks. We all know the conversation that needs to happen, but none of us seems to know where to start.

"Sherlock," Lestrade finally says, "What the _hell_ is going on?"

"Well, Detective Inspector, it appears that John was less than happy about our chance meeting in the square and punched me in the face." There is a hint of a smile in his musical baritone, and it sets me off.

"'Less than happy,' Sherlock? I've thought you dead for _three years,_ you think I was just going to be okay with you waltzing on over and greeting me like nothing's happened?" Clearly, his sensitivity for other people's feelings hasn't gotten much better.

"Is this about caring, John?" he asks quietly.

"Yes, you bloody idiot!" I say, trying not to lose my temper. "Did it ever even occur to you what faking your death – since I suppose that's what you did – would do to anyone _else?_ How Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, myself, the others, would _feel_ when we thought you had _died?"_

"Of course it did!" he cries, his voice rising sharply and exasperation clearly visible in his eyes. My retort dies upon this declaration.

"Wait…what?"

"You don't understand, John, I had to do it! It was the only way to beat Moriarty! You heard me in the courtroom –he's a spider, a spider lurking at the center of a highly dangerous web. The only way to beat him was to outsmart him, and the only way to outsmart him was to make him – and all of his associates – think that _I_ thought I had no way out. It would only work if you truly believed I was dead, if you truly believed I was a fake."

"But how –" Lestrade begins, but Sherlock isn't finished.

"No one could know – not either of you, not Mrs. Hudson, no one he could potentially harm for information. Mycroft, of course, was in on the secret – always best to have someone official on your side when faking your death, remember that – and Molly, of course, who proved invaluable in several ways."

"That bastard – I knew he knew something," I mutter. "And Molly – what'd you have to do to get her to pull those strings, take her to dinner?" Sherlock looks surprised.

"No," he says. "I merely asked for her help, and she gave it to me."

"Of course she did, she's mad for you," Lestrade says. Sherlock raises his eyebrows.

"Molly's attentions towards me are neither here nor there at the moment," he replies calmly. "The point is that she helped me to 'die' so you all could live. I jump, the snipers leave, you all live. End of story."

"With zero regard to how it would affect us afterwards!" I say, as Lestrade simultaneously asks, "But _how_ did you do that?" We listen as Sherlock describes the whole affair to us – the twisted mind games with Moriarty, the rooftop confrontation, the carefully planned 'suicide,' and the timing critical to his plan's success. When he finishes, we sit in shocked silence. The truth is even more fantastical than anything either of us could have possibly imagined. Only one man in the world could have pulled off such a stunt successfully, and he sits before us. Even more shocking is the realization that my earlier thought was wrong – his incredible efforts to protect us are proof that Sherlock Holmes does, in fact, care.

"Sherlock Holmes, you are bloody brilliant," I say. "I hate you with a fiery passion at the moment, but you're still bloody brilliant."

"Thank you, John," is his response, and the smirk returns. Git.


	5. The Question

_"Dear God, what is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so _boring."

Sherlock receives round two of berating when we return to Baker Street –Mrs. Hudson doesn't punch him, but she lets loose a fierce volley of yells that I never thought could possibly come from the sweet lady. Once she finishes yelling, she breaks down and cries. "Oh, Sherlock dear," she says, "I'm so happy you're back, I truly am."

Sherlock ascertains that all of his things are still there – "Bloody hell, Mycroft's messed up my sock index!" – and then flops down on the sofa, his long legs draped over the armrest. Eyes closed, he presses his slender hands together almost as if in prayer, the tips of his long fingers resting under his chin. He lays there and thinks – for I know that this is indeed his thinking posture – for several minutes, then suddenly springs back up and sits on his heels, his bright eyes fixed on me.

"It was the gardener," he says suddenly.

"Sorry…what?"

"The _gardener,_ John, the gardener!" Seeing my still-blank expression, he rolls his eyes. "That murder case out in Manchester, it's been all over the papers for the last week. Lestrade's been working on it but hasn't been able to come up with his man – hence the takeout coffee, Lestrade only stoops to that level when he's on a case nonstop for more than three days at a time. If he's in his office, he much prefers the break-room variety, so I'd say he's having some difficulty. The haircut, not just an everyday move – Lestrade never gets a haircut unless he needs one, and having seen him from afar just recently, I can tell you he did not need a haircut – conclusion, the haircut was part of a poor attempt at a disguise, probably in order to work his way into the dead woman's household. The dirt under his nails _clearly_ matches that of the victim's neighborhood. Dirty house? Of course not, the woman was known for near-manic cleanliness, the type who dusts five times a day and removes her shoes immediately so has not to track debris into her house, so the dirt couldn't have come from the house, or the body. But, she did love plants, as evidenced by the countless books on the subject in her study – therefore, garden, but being a wealthy germaphobe, she had a gardener to take care of her precious plants _for _her. Confirmed poison from a plant, but she doesn't garden, so it was the gardener. Obviously." He finally finishes his rant and looks at me expectantly.

"Good Lord, Sherlock," I say, shaking my head. "Here I am thinking you were quiet on the way to the Yard because you thought it'd be a good idea to shut up for once, when you were really solving a case!" I can't help but laugh.

"Did you expect me to do anything else?" he asks, looking puzzled. "I couldn't just sit there and ignore those clues, not when Lestrade left them out so nicely for me."

"Did you tell Lestrade?"

"Of course I did, I texted him as soon as we left his office." His arrogance is astounding sometimes.

"And I suppose you're about to tell me you've solved others as well?" I ask, a hint of sarcasm in my voice. "You were, after all, supposed to be dead."

"Well _obviously _things came up while I was chasing Moriarty's henchmen all around," Sherlock says impatiently.

"Sherlock, people don't have _henchmen_ in real life –" I begin, but the look on his face reminds me that most of our other dealings – chasing murderers through London at all hours, being strapped up with deadly explosives, exposing international crime rings – are hardly "real life" regularities either. "Ok fine," I continue. "Maybe Moriarty did. Where did you go, anyway?"

"Oh, nowhere of consequence." He shrugs. "China, India, Switzerland, Mexico – particularly difficult, that one – Russia, the Middle East. America."

"So basically you took a little trip around the world. Thanks for inviting me."

"I wasn't aware you liked chasing down dangerous criminals."

"Not particularly. Although it does provide a nice change of pace once in a while, and of course you were without your blogger." He smirks a little at that one.

"Ah yes, my blogger. The world will never read the no-doubt highly eloquent rendition of my globetrotting adventures bringing down Moriarty's thugs one by one."

"Don't be sarcastic, Sherlock, it's unbecoming. Besides, I thought you secretly liked my blog." I do my best to look hurt.

"Oh, do stop pouting, John. Of course I like your blog, even if it is a bit…dull, sometimes."

"Says the one who thought people would actually be interested in reading about 240 types of tobacco ash," I mutter, just loud enough for him to hear.

"It was 243." Now it's his turn to look hurt.

"Anyway, we were on solving cases…" I don't really want to hear any more about tobacco ash.

"Ah, yes!" The spark in his eye returns. "Obviously I had to track down Moriarty's people, but there were other things that came up in the process. Surely you read about the recent Southampton case where the only clues were a toothbrush, a tube of lipstick, and an empty book of matches?" I shake my head.

"What about the one with the escaped kangaroo in Washington? The counterfeiters who shut down the entire Moscow subway system for a week? The chocolate poisonings in Zürich?" When none of these elicits a response, he stares at me incredulously. "Really, John, don't you _ever_ read the papers?" Pause. "Clearly not, otherwise you'd have known a while ago that I was still alive."

"Well obviously I didn't know," I say, a little annoyed. "And I do read the papers, but I stopped after a while because I couldn't stand all the tabloids about you being dead and a fake and all that."

"But you told them, didn't you?"

"Told who what?"

"Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, you told everyone I was a fake."

"Sherlock, for someone who's supposedly so smart, you are _so_ stupid sometimes." I shake my head. "Of course I didn't tell them."

"Why not?"

"Because I knew it wasn't true. You tried to tell me nobody could be that clever, but obviously you're a really bad liar, because you most certainly _are_ that clever. And don't even try to tell me you were in contact with Lestrade before today about that gardening business, he was just as confused as I was when you showed up –"

"And has already proven he's a terrible actor and could therefore have never convincingly faked his surprise," Sherlock interrupts. "All right, you got me there, John."

"Right then, so long as we're agreed there," I say. There is a long pause in which neither of us says anything, and then my friend speaks again.

"I believe some congratulations are in order."

"Sorry?" I am distracted.

"John, unlike you, I do read the papers. I saw your engagement announcement." I look up at my friend and see a rare, genuine smile on his face. "So, congratulations. Although I'm rather hurt you haven't yet mentioned her."

"Dear God, Sherlock, I've kind of had other things on my mind! You were dead until a few hours ago, remember?"

"Technically no, but I see your point."

"But yes, I am indeed getting married." And I tell him the whole story – how Mary and I met, everything I love about her, how she was there for me when the thought of his death threatened to break me – he looks so shocked when I talk about this that I immediately stop. "What?"

"Is that…is that really how bad it was?" he asks softly.

"Yes, Sherlock. Because, unlike you, most people do have emotions." My voice is rather gruffer than I intended.

"I…I'm so sorry." I look over at Sherlock. He is deliberately avoiding my gaze, staring at the floor, looking utterly depressed. And this is when I realize something – Sherlock Holmes just apologized. And he actually meant it.

I do the only thing I can think of – I walk to the couch, sit next to Sherlock, and wrap my arms around him.

"You've no idea how much I missed you," I say, attempting to put as much emotion as I can into the hug. "You're more than just my flat-mate, you're my best friend." For the first time since I've known him, Sherlock looks genuinely touched.

"I missed you too, John," he replies. "All of you. You, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade…it was agony knowing how much pain I was causing you, agony knowing I couldn't come home before I'd destroyed Moriarty's web, even though I wanted to so badly. The last time I saw you, you told me 'Friends protect people.' I thought you were being silly and stupid at the time, but now I think I know what you meant, because I have never felt so alone as I have these past three years. You were right – and I'm glad you're my friend." It is my turn to be touched. Sherlock Holmes – the master of the mind – is speaking from his heart.

"I have a question for you then," I say.

"Yes?"

"Well…this wedding. Will you…will you be my best man? It wouldn't feel right to have anyone else do it." Sherlock is speechless for a moment before the genuine smile returns.

"I'd be honored, John."


End file.
